


testing

by sp8ce



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bipolar Sollux Captor, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kinda, Knifeplay, M/M, One Shot, Pining, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Power Dynamics, Quadrant Confusion, Self-Hatred, Touch-Starved, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22258546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp8ce/pseuds/sp8ce
Summary: How much is Sollux willing to hurt you?
Relationships: Eridan Ampora/Sollux Captor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 120





	testing

**Author's Note:**

> can be read in same setup as Nuclear Fission

You like to test him. Not in real ways, not in using his insanity against him. Not in even trying to hurt him ever. You like pinning him down because he wants you to, because it blossoms like pride in your system to know you can so easily manhandle him with your newfound strength when he used to tower over you, even if in all reality he could fling you against the wall so hard your skull would crack open if he ever had the desire. But there isn’t an ounce of hatred in you, not even when this began. You want to fight him to feel  _ anything _ , you want to kiss him even if it  _ hurts _ , and maybe that’s why you have to test him.

See how far he’d go.

See exactly how much he wants to hurt you.

See exactly how much he hates you.

You wonder if he knows that he was the only friend you had for sweeps, if he’d even have considered you that. You never understood why he’d message you  _ back _ . It’d shock you so immensely you’d sometimes not even be able to respond to him for days, so quickly obsessed with his snark, with his dismissal of you if it were at all even directed at you. 

And true, when he came over, flashing red and blue and calling himself insane, it wasn’t actually anything to do with you. 

But he stayed. 

Once you caught him moving everything around your block, books, furniture, decorations, all at once, a haze of moving red and blue, and you know enough about the Psionic to know the risks of overextending his powers, but he was just creating a show, as if to test himself, as if there were no consequence in the world for it. You walk over to him quietly, avoiding all the flying objects best you can, and sit beside him, slowly put your hand on his leg, and he looks at you shocked, dropped everything suddenly, the noise clattering and echoing in your hive. He looks scared.

“Are you okay,” you ask. You never quite know what to do when his vulnerability shows, when the smugness of his high drops, and he’s paranoid and scared. When he first came, he stayed at your place for days. You know it has nothing to do with you, that you’re not actually important, but his touch is like  _ fire _ , and you lose your _ mind _ , and even if it isn’t about you, he needs someone. Anyone. And your heart is full for him, and you want to help. 

“Nothing’s real, all the lights are like echoes, like omens, I can’t..” he slurs, and it’s slower than usual. The more time he spends with you the more you can understand his words when they race over his lisp. But he almost seems calm now. He doesn’t look at you, but rather stares off into the distance. The psionics light up the room again, and he moves everything back into place, somewhat, without even really looking. The room is still somewhat in disarray, but you don’t mind really. The more he touches your things the more you feel like he is a part of your life, that he is home here, and you can’t tell him, but you’re addicted to that.

“I’m here,” you say, because he’s responded best when you’ve said that. He suddenly looks at you, like he’s seeing you for who he is.

“Told you I am fucking crazy,” he says.

“It’s okay,” you respond. “It’s not like you’re hurtin' anyone. And I find it impressivve, what your pan can do.” He squints at you, all sparking, like he can’t make sense of you at all, and you guess he can’t, because if he could see that it was  _ you _ saying that, he’d probably do something like hurt you or knock you backwards, instead of what he does do, cling into you, and sob into your chest.

Yeah, you don’t want to test him when he’s like that.

You also don’t want to mock him or hurt him or use that against him because he doesn’t need that. He needs someone to love him even when he can’t make sense of himself. It makes you feel so guilty, that you’re doing this again, that you’re waxing red for your kismesis, just like you did for your moirail. But at least now you’re expecting this to end dramatically, for you to be left alone and hurting by the wayside whenever he comes back to his senses. Whatever is happening here, it’s not real.

~~ It feels more real than everyone you’ve pailed just in order to stay alive because you’re the most  _ pathetic _ troll in existence who can’t even quadrant who can’t even figure out how to be close to anyone who can’t even think about making new connections or moving on from the only people you’ve truly loved who all hate you because of things you’ve done that make you  _ incorrigible _ , truly truly  _ incorrigible _ \-- ~~

But also, maybe it is bad, that you’re doing the same thing you did to Feferi to him, because you can’t help but  _ test  _ him.

It starts out when he looks at you in this calculated way after kissing you roughly one evening. He squints his bicoloured eyes at you, then slaps you across the face. 

It hurts in ways you weren’t expecting, it makes you feel cold and sick, and you can’t manage to even move a muscle because generally no matter how violent he gets with you, you crave his touch like he’s the last thing on the planet, and you need his contact to stay alive. But this feels wrong, it hurts, you can’t speak. It’s so... personal. You know he can see, clearly, the pain displayed so loudly across your face. You try to hide how much it hurts when he does things because they’re pitch, not flushed, when he hates you when you want him to pity you, but this, this he can  _ see _ . 

So you don’t respond at all. You just stay looking at him, looking at you so puzzled. The tension snaps, and he pushes you down, pressure on your shoulders hard, and you could fight it but you don’t, and you fall to your knees, the impact of the collision shocking pain. You look up at him grinning.

“You won’t havve so much power wwhen I make you see _ stars _ ,” you say, and it’s such a lame line, you feel the shame rolling in your gut, but he’s still silent, shocked, studying you, as you reach for his pants and get him off in your mouth.

He returns the favour without speaking a word.

...

You test him. Making it a game to mask the fact it hurts so badly. And it’s not the roughness or the energy coursing through his body or the way he pushes you around. You like that more than you should probably admit. In fact, it’s scarier when you’re unsure how much is okay to match him with, like you’re afraid you’ll break or scare him with the anger issues roiling under your skin, and you see his boredom rise like your panicked chest when you’re breathing too fast. No, it’s when he pulls back, when he looks at you, when he pushes you then squints at you like he’s wanting you to react, and when you don’t he just does again, confusion coursing through his body down to his shaking hands. 

Maybe he knows your secret. Maybe you’re daring him to find out. 

“You like  _ this _ , huh?” he asks, and kicks your shin while holding your shoulders in place. It’s hard and it  _ hurts _ , and you just smirk at him because you  _ don’t _ , and your silence does something to him. He lets go of you, then kicks you again. You don’t say a word. “You want me to treat you like this?” he asks, his voice quieter, less bold and tempting. He doesn’t usually say that. But then again, usually your initial hurt and shock is surely easy to read.

You don’t respond to anything, but you kiss him. He’s so easy to affect with just your hands on his chest and your mouth on his neck. You don’t know if that’s him or a side effect of whatever is happening to him that makes him so fucking desperate for you. He’s told you several times that he’s sober, and you’re not taking advantage of him, but some part of you still worries that you are. He might be unable to hide how much he wants you (probably because he just never had any fucking  _ shame _ ), but you try, you try like the simple touch of his hand doesn’t get you so fucking high you may as well also be out of your mind.

He could do  _ whatever  _ the hell he wanted to you, and maybe that’s the point.

How far will he go?

You were ready for whatever revenge he wanted to meat out of you, but none of this seems to be that. This just seems to be him, viewing you, with hatred. Like you’re his kismesis. 

But it nearly catches in your throat like a lace pattern made out of coloured glass when he asks you, then, if you’d be interested in him using a knife on you. He says it so casually. Cod, what does he want to do to you? You nod, of course, and he’s just squinting at you again. Like he can’t quite figure you out.

“I  _ will _ then,” he spits out after a moment, like it makes him angry when it was his idea. You just shrug. There is definitely something very wrong with you. 

“I’ll get one,” you say, and you retrieve the sharp one in your respite block you used when you were younger on yourself. It has purple jewels on the hilt, and it’s very clean. You turn and pass it to him, and he just looks at you shocked. 

You’re testing him; you’re testing him. 

After he takes the knife, he leaves it daggling beside the two of you in the air and kisses you, gentle, and you realise now maybe you’re just pretending to test him to cover up the fact you’re so pathetically  _ weak _ to him because his kiss right now, it means everything. He pulls you down to the floor, kissing above you still, gentle and sweet, and you’re returning it like you can’t turn away this gift, before he pulls back, shifting on your legs, grabbing the knife floating in the air.

Fear grips you. You’re really scared. He leans down and places it by your collarbone. You can’t help but lean into the pressure as if it’s his touch. Your neck is a few inches away. Maybe he’ll actually just kill you. Or maybe he’ll mutilate you. Maybe he’s finally ready to blind you. Or maybe it’s even worse. You breathe as deep as you can to manage the fear and keep yourself calm.

“Y’knoww it’s a cowwards wway out to mutilate one’s kismesis,” you say. Your facade slipped. You feel the way his hands shake at that from the pressure of the knife on your chest, still not breaking skin. You dare him a glance, and you think he might look slightly horrified. Did you catch him in his plans?

He pulls the knife away, and leans back, adding more pressure on your legs, looking a little baffled, before lifting your shirt up and electing to place the edge of the blade on your stomach instead.

But the reaction is instant.

You lose your breath, gasping desperately, terrified. You know you have no right to be, but you  _ remember _ , or at least some part of your body does. Is that what he’s doing? Is he going to slice you in half?

You’re thrown into hysteria; you can’t feel your legs and your head tells you they’re missing, but that would be cause for instant death, would it not? But you’re cut in two, you’re cut in two, _ you’re cut in two. _

“Eridan!” you hear Sollux give out. Loudly, as if he’d been trying to get your attention. You notice there’s no knife at your abdomen. “Eridan, what’th going on?” he asks, and there’s something akin to  _ care _ in his voice it makes you want to  _ choke _ . You need to calm down to address him, the troll sitting on top of you, and with every bit of calmness you regain, you drown more in your own embarrassment. 

“It’s just..” you finally try to begin.

“What? Thould I go?”

“No!”  _ That is that LAST thing you want. _ “It’s just, this is really fuckin stupid, but... my think pan tells me you’re gonna hack me in half, and my body still remembers and reacts, that’s all.” You see his jaw drop slightly in a kind of understanding. “If you wwant me ta remain calm, you might wwanna cut somewhere else. Unless,” you take a deep breath.  _ Revenge, he’s allowed his revenge. _ You feel like you’re swimming in fear and pain. “Unless that’s the point. If you wwanna make sure I havve a scar, which I knoww I should, or if you wwanna...” you just can’t finish that sentence. It’s like the agony is distorting the world around you, the pure panic. “You might wwanna gimme a second, then. Gotta relax.” 

You take a second to regulate your breathing, something you’ve been spending years practising, and then you study him. He’s looking at you with his discerning eyes, the knife in his hand a foot or so away from your stomach. He seems like he’s frozen, which is so weird because he hasn’t stopped moving barely at all since he got here.

You can’t help but imagine him stabbing you with all the force he can, or slicing, hacking as if there were a way to make a clean cut with a small dagger like there was with a chainsaw. 

“You would let me do that,” he says, and he sounds confounded. “You would let me  _ thcar you with a knife _ in a way that merely holding it causeth you to feel  _ traumatithed _ ?”

“Yes,” you admit, and you squeeze your eyes shut. “But I wwould  _ highly  _ prefer it if you cut me somewhere else,” you add. Then, for the sake of face in this kismesistude of yours, you add in a fragile tone, “Lose the battle, wwin the wwar.”

You can’t even  _ look  _ at him, just waiting in anticipation, before you hear the knife clatter on the ground, and him move off you.

By the time you open your eyes, you see him walking away into your respiteblock.

Once the door closes, you’re left breathing in exhilaration. 

You guess you finally tested him to his limits, then. 

...

You can’t help but heave desperate breaths for awhile lying on the floor before you get up the nerve to walk to your respiteblock, where Sollux has been staying since. You knock on your own door.

“Can I come in?” you ask. He doesn’t respond, and it  _ is _ your block, so you enter anyways. He’s sitting on the ground, the knife out of his grasp a few feet stationary away, and he’s not doing much of anything.

“I’m sorry,” you say. It causes him to immediately swivel his head at you, looking at you with an expression you can’t place. 

“I thould go,” he says, finally, and he almost sounds very sad, but it sends off alarm bells in your pan, and you’re sent into desperation mode.

“I nevver said you couldn’t,” you say, panicked now. “I just needed ta calm dowwn. You can, please, _please_ ,” you say. You get down on your knees to grab the knife, sit back and place it in front of him. You’re well aware that you’re begging him, not only begging him, but begging him to hurt you in a way that’s going to damage you in ways you’re entirely sure of yet, but you think if he leaves, if he decides he’s done with you now, your fault, because you couldn’t take whatever he wanted... you just _can’t_. You almost crave the blade between the two of you, if it’s in his hands.

“You want me to thcar you?” he asks, and you think he sounds slightly ill. You nod, because you don’t, even if you deserve it, the fact there’s no reminders on your body of the ending of the game is a solace you selfishly cling to. But if that’s what he wants, if that’s what’s going to make him stay, or touch you again, you’ll agree. “You want me to thcar you to mark the way you were gruethomely murdered, tho gruethomely that thweepth later it cautheth you to have panic attackth?” he clarifies. 

“Yes,” you say. Do you deserve any less after what you’ve done? You see something in him snap and feel him push you back with his psionics. You catch yourself on the backs of your arms. He moves forward, as if  _ he’s  _ testing  _ you _ , slowly, lifting your shirt up, and you’re trying so hard to keep calm. He hasn’t even gone for a knife yet. He pulls your legs out straight, so you’re lying on your back, then moves on top of you, still unarmed.

He moves his face to your stomach... is he going to use his  _ teeth _ instead?

You wait, tense and frozen, but all he does is kiss your abdomen, kiss along where your body should be separated, tender and soft.

“Sol, wwhat... wwhat are you doin’,” you ask. He pauses for a second, looking up at you. 

“It mutht have been thcary, being killed like that,” he says, looking at you with a dangerous expression. Dangerous because maybe there's pity in it. He goes back to kissing your stomach, and it bubbles over inside of you like too sweet hot leaf water. He kisses down after a couple of minutes, to your jeans, and takes a second to pause to undo them. The thought of him... you’re gulping in air again, afraid.

“Hey, hey, I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “Do you want me to thtop?” 

“No,” you say. And you don’t think he’s ever been this slow, when he starts, this  _ careful _ , and you’re overwhelmed with the intensity of bliss in your daze until he makes you come.

He lies down beside you a minute afterwards. He grabs your fucking hand.

“Thith ithn’t working anymore,” he says. You pull away, sit up, look over at him looking sad. 

“So wwhat? You’re breakin’ up wwith me?” you ask, and you  _ know  _ you’ve been expecting this, but it comes out wounded. You didn’t think when he finally failed your testing, things would be  _ over _ .

He’s the only thing you have. And it was okay, it was okay it was okay, when you were all alone, when you just talked to the prejudiced violet bloods at work who didn’t like you at all. It was okay, your sad memories and your book collections. But now it shatters you, now you can’t stand the thought of losing him. He’s all you have, and you couldn’t be enough. You knew this was coming; why are you  _ so  _ pathetic, why are you  _ so fucking useless! _ You can’t stop the cascade though; you know you should get up to move, but you can’t. There’s tears prickling your eyes. This fake excuse of a quadrant, this desperate fling, it is the realest thing you’ve ever known.

You bite the inside of your lip until you taste blood.

“You’ve been hating me for  _ yearth _ , but you don’t fight back when I hurt you in real wayth,” he says, and it’s frustrating, because he sounds sane and sensible now, no way to discredit the calm manner he’s analysing this.

“It’s called playin’ the long game!” you lie. You don’t really know what you’re saying through the heartache. “Evven if you hurt me, that doesn’t mean I can’t wwin.”

“But I don’t want to hurt you!” he exclaims. It shocks you into silence. He--he doesn’t want to... hurt you? Your think pan turns foggy instead of caustic. 

“Wwhat?” you finally stutter out. “ _ You _ came onto  _ me _ !” 

“I get that you hate me and my thtupid mutated pan and my--”

“Sol, hold the  _ fuck  _ up, wwhat the hell is goin’ on?”

“I didn’t mean to be your kithmethith,” he says, wincing at the word. You knew this. You could tell from the beginning, the way he was just using you as a stand in for  _ anyone _ . But it hurts; it hurts, and the tears are on your cheeks now, and it’s so fucking embarrassing, it burns.

“ED... he says, and he goes to wipe your cheek, but you flinch away. 

“Wwell, for the drones sake, let’s say wwe wwere,” you say. You don’t think you can stand anyone touching you again for a long time.

“Do you really hate me?” he asks. It sounds so searching and hesitant. What do you truly have to lose now, anyways? What, he’s going to go to all your childhood best friends who hate you now and mock you? The thought hurts, but it’s not like there’s any image of you to be ruined. You shake your head, face fuming, eyes stinging. 

“Then why do you want to be in that quadrant with me tho badly?” he asks. Cod, this is so embarrassing. This has to be the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you, perhaps, after being cut in half by a chainsaw by someone you loved.

“I just... wwanted this,” you say, and you feel friable and small. You can’t look at him. “I’m sad it’s ovver.”

“You wanted me to hurt you? To  _ thcar  _ you?” he goads, and you want to beat him the fuck up right now, for doing this to you, while there are tears in your eyes, in your own respiteblock. But you can’t find it in yourself to tell him to leave.

“I just wwanted  _ you _ , happy? I just wwanted you, in all your forms, wwith your smart think pan and your entrancin’ eyes. I just wwanna  _ be  _ there for you and feel you and comfort you, no matter wwhat happens. I think you’re intelligent and smart and funny and kind and I just... does that answer your question, does that showw you just how fuckin’ pathetic and wweak I am? Is that wwhat you’re lookin’ for?” He grabs your head with gentle but forceful hands and  _ kisses  _ you, kisses you like he did that first time after you pailed, like whenever he wants to make your heart swell and burst. You’re too weak to pull away. He can still do whatever he wants with you, you realise. He can break you.

He pulls away, and you see something vulnerable in his small smile.

“I didn’t mean to be your kithmethith, and I didn’t mean to  _ feel _ thith way, but you jutht come and  _ thay  _ thith... you jutht... you want me? While I’m... I’m like  _ thith _ ?” he gestures to his body with no elaboration, as if he looks any different than usual. “Can’t we jutht be...” he takes a deep breath. “Matethpritth? Ith that ridiculouth? Becauthe I’m fuckin’ inthane and that’th not changing but it will drop, and I’ll be empty and nothing, and you’ll want nothing to do with me and then I’ll be inthane again, and why the hell would you want that?”

“I wwant that,” you say, without hesitation, without even thinking.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Eridan,” he says. “I don’t want you to let me hurt you. I don’t want you  _ to _ hurt.”  _ That’s  _ too good to be true.

“Okay,” you say.

“I didn’t underthtand, why you kept letting me. I couldn’t help.. tethting you. Waiting for you to  _ thay _ thomthing, or fight back,” you say.  _ He was testing you too, _

“Okay.” 

“But I’m thtill fucked up. I can’t change that. I know you are too but... I am in wayth you aren’t.”

“Okay,” you say. “You aren’t changin’ my mind, Sol.” 

“Tho... matethriptth?” 

“Yeah, matesprits,” you agree. You don’t think can process that yet. You think it will take a long time, longer than he’ll want you, before you can actually accept that someone  _ wants you _ . And him? You do respect him enough to be a kismesis. He allures you in ways no one else could. You’re obsessed with everything about him. He makes you feel tender in a way nothing else in the world does. He feels more real than anything. How could he want you? It doesn’t make sense at all. It’s just another part of his insanity, you’re sure. But you’re not going to start denying him now. 

Maybe you’ve failed your own test.

But it feels so nice, to hold his hand, with something like love between you, filling up the block.


End file.
